End of Days
by SilverWaterFox
Summary: A bioweapon, a new plague, an alcoholic still grieving the loss of his boyfriend and best friend. A lonely musician in the wrong place at the wrong time. A rescue leads to friendship, or something like it. Maybe, if survival is the cards, it could be more. Axel's POV in an apocalypse he isn't sure he wants to live through. Eventual Axel/Demyx. Rated for gore, language, and sex.
1. Breach

When the end of the world began, I was home, sleeping off a hangover and avoiding responsibility. I'd rolled over the edge of my bed to puke into my trashcan and glanced at the alarm clock on my bedside table. 11:24 am. _Whatever, I already missed the start of my shift. _I groaned and flopped over onto my back, acid still burning in the back of my throat as I stared at the peeling paint of the shitty ceiling above my bed. Work didn't interest me anymore, even though it was something I thought I'd always love doing. Tattooing had been my passion for years, ever since I was little and discovered wood burning. The vibrations of the gun in my hand, the smooth glide of ink into flesh, seeing my lines become a masterpiece, fuck. It was better than sex, sometimes.

But then about four years ago, I met Roxas. He was a snarky little shit that liked to come into my shop just to stare at the art. I was fine with it the first few times, figured he was scoping out a particular artist for a special piece or some shit, but after a month of off and on visits, I was done.

"_Hey, kid. The hell are you doing in here? You got no ink, and you ain't even talked to any of us about a piece."  
The kid scowled, dark blue eyes narrowing as unruly golden hair flopped in front of them. "What's it matter?"  
"You're eating up space that customers could be using." This wasn't necessary true, as the shop was empty except for the two girls in chairs getting tramp stamps from his co-workers. The boy arched an eyebrow and looked around pointedly, obviously not buying. "Look, kid, I don't even know if you're allowed to be in here, all right? You got ID?"  
The kid-Roxas-had pulled out an ID and slapped it on the glass display case that doubled as a counter. I had taken a look at his DOB, and sure enough, he was 18. Soon to be 19. "Still doesn't answer my question," I growled.  
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I want some ink, Axel Fleming."  
I rubbed my hands together. "Finally, jesus fuckin' Christ. You want something off the wall or a custom?" I didn't question how he knew my name; it was emblazoned across my black t-shirt in bloody red letters.  
We'd spent nearly two hours designing his piece, two crossed keys over his heart. One was blocky, almost cartoonish. The other was a masterwork of swirling edges and delicate curves. He insisted we add handles—hilts? —and the end result was two sword-looking keys crossed in a coat of arms, kinda.  
"For my twin brother," he said as he stripped his band tee off, revealing a toned torso. I tried not to acknowledge the part of me that was very, very, interested in exactly how that chest would taste if I dragged my tongue across it.  
"That's cool," I grunted as I tugged on the custom latex gloves with a rubbery snap. Having ridiculously long skinny fingers is a lot less common in the latex glove wearing community than you'd think, I guess.  
The tattoo took maybe four hours, with shading and everything. When I was done and Roxas had admired it in the mirror, eyes shining with silent appreciation, he'd turned to me and raked those blue eyes up and down my skinny frame, flaming red hair to battered black Converse. "You want to come to my place for a drink?" he'd asked. At 4:03 in the afternoon? With an underage piece of ass like that?  
"You bet," I said, and clocked out. _

We'd gone to his apartment, turned on the stereo, had maybe four or five sips of whiskey and then we'd been kissing, tongues slippery against each other. I had loved his sharp intake of breath when he found the tongue piercing, the way his hands fisted in my shirt before yanking it off and ripping a sleeve in the process.

I hadn't heard from him after that well-spent night for nearly a week. I hadn't gotten his number, just left him mine, which is not—I repeat, not—how Axel usually rolls, got it memorized? But I'd really gotten interested in this key kid, with his soft blue eyes that somehow looked as sharp as glass, his quiet voice like knives, his smooth skin like fire. He called me and I could hear his smirk through the phone when I picked up. Little shit.

It had taken a few months for us to really be a couple, I guess. At first it'd just been fast and dirty sex, then hanging out, hitting a movie, going to the beach, whatever. And then on Tuesday May 11th, he'd rolled over in bed and looked at me, lips slightly swollen and a quickly darkening hickey on his collarbone. "I love you," he said, and got out from under the blankets of my bed, beginning to get dressed. He hadn't gotten far. I had drug him back into bed and just held him close, heart pounding like I'd just run a damn race. I told him I loved him back a week later.

And then we'd started getting really couple-y. Our friends thought we were, quote, "The cutest fucking thing" and I guess we kinda were. Our three year anniversary had been the night when I got down on one boney knee and asked that little fucker to marry me. He'd said yes.

Eleven days later, at 2:44 am Roxas Strife was pronounced dead at the Twilight Town Muncipal Hospital. He'd apparently had some kind of heart condition that was never picked up on and one day it just sort of…stopped. I came home from working a super late shift and tossed my keys on the table, saw that the bathroom light was on and the door cracked. I kicked off my shoes and pushed the door open, saying, "Rox, sorry I'm home so late—" and then I saw that he was lying motionless on the bathroom floor in his tanktop and boxers, toothbrush and toothpaste scatted on the floor beside him like accidental casualties.

That was 408 days, 8 hours, and 47 minutes ago. I hadn't been to work regularly in months. I got drunk every single night, drunk enough to black out and remember nothing. I had moved out of the place Roxas and I had shared into a shitty little studio that was way below my budget so I could afford to buy as much booze as I wanted and still have decent quality of living. I was a piece of trash that sometimes showed up to work and made art. I guess it was art. I didn't care anymore, couldn't care. It was like the light of my world had been removed, the flame of my passion snuffed out.  
It felt like my beating heart had been ripped out of my chest.

But that has nothing to do with the end of the world which, like I said, I spent the first few minutes of puking my guts up. We had these emergency radios issued by the City of Twilight Town in case of flood and fire and whatnot, but they'd never come on before. Not until that morning.

It started as a crackling hiss from the top dresser drawer, and I had a moment of sheer panic as I envisioned massive cockroaches—but no. I had shoved that stupid little mandatory radio into the drawer when I packed to leave _our_ place and had never taken it back out. I stood shakily and yanked the drawer open, the bright red light blinking on the top of the radio making me squint. I set it on top of the dresser, having to shove a few bottles aside to make room. It continued to hiss for a few seconds before a calm, cool, female voice began issuing out.

"Citizens of Twilight Town, this is not a drill. There has been a state of emergency declared across the globe. A terrorist group, currently unknown, has released a biochemical bomb that issues an invisible and odorless gas. Citizens outside as of eleven o'clock this morning are to report to the nearest health care center immediately. Everyone else is being issued an order to remain inside. Law enforcement have authority to use whatever means necessary to keep citizens inside their homes for the time being. I repeat, _do not leave your homes._"

She continued to speak as I sat down abruptly on my bed, knees weak, but I only caught snippets of the rest of the report. "…_causes visible sores and bleeding from the eyes, nose, and mouth_…." What the fuck was this about? We'd been living in peace with all our neighboring countries for nearly three years. There hadn't even been rumors. "…_advised to secure their homes against looters…_" Okay, but what was I supposed to do? I lived on the top floor of the shittiest apartment building in the whole city. If anyone was going to start something, it'd be one of the residents here. I stood again, raking my shaking hands through my hair. I could feel my pulse pounding in my neck and there was a quivery feeling in the pit of my stomach.

A new voice broke through the woman's firm monologue, this one a rough male tone that conjured an image of a battle-scarred warrior. "Listen, civilians, new reports are coming. If you've been exposed to the bioweapon, get away from family members and friends immediately. This appears to be a type of virus similar to Mad Cow. Point being it's going to drive you fuckin' insane within an hour of exposure. Get away from people. Put yourself down, if you can. If not, find one of us and we'll do it for you. Those who've been infected are startin' to devour people. No, I'm not kidding. Arm yourselves, civilians, because the infected are coming, and they're coming for you."

The broadcast cut out.

Oh, shit.


	2. Extraction Point

"_Goddamn it, Roxas! Why the hell did you shoot me? I'm on your team!" Roxas smirked from the loveseat, Xbox controller dangling from his fingers as the GAME OVER sign flashed on the red screen. I rolled my eyes and angrily jabbed the button that would take us to a new game. "Left for Dead is a co-op game, Rox. Not a "hide-behind-corners-and-shoot-your-boyfriend-repeatedly-in-the-face-on-expert-level game." _

"_Really?" asked Roxas, his tone dripping with innocence that was belied by the evil grin he wore like a badge of honor. "Cause I could have sworn the back of the box totally said that second thing. Seriously." _

_I snatched the case off the ground and turned to show it to Roxas, only to find him in my lap, controller abandoned in his chair. "Rox, we already started a new game," I muttered, hearing the faint snarls of the zombies in the background. He wiggled down my chest until he crouched between my legs, slender hand massaging the already growing bulge in my jeans. I let my controller clatter to the ground, though I was usually incredibly careful with my electronics. The fall must have hit the trigger, because a spray of gunshots echoed out of the TV, almost lost beneath the torturously slow clicking of the teeth of the zipper on my jeans. _

_As Roxas finally eased the zipper all the way down and yanked my jeans further down my hips, he licked his lips and growled, "Call me a zombie, baby, 'cause I'm gonna eat you alive." _

I shook the radio, but there was silence. Not even the static of dead air to let me know that anything in this goddamn city was still working. Setting the radio down, I fought the rising surge of panic in my chest. What kind of sick joke was this? I yanked open the drawers of my dresser and stripped off the sweaty clothes from yesterday—or maybe it was two days ago, I couldn't remember—and pulled on the first clean shirt and pair of jeans I could find. As I was pulling on my first shoe, I heard a short crack from outside. I shoved my other foot into the shoe, laces be damned, and ran to the only window the cramped studio had, conveniently overlooking the main drag of this shitty part of town. What looked like a pile of laundry lay in the street, a man in distinctly military clothing standing over it. His gun was drawn. When I saw the slowly spreading pool of blood from the body, my brain finally kicked into gear and decided to get with the program. I jerked away from the window, leaning against the wall. Someone just got shot. I hadn't heard a warning.

Heart pounding, I looked back out the window, only to see something that was guaranteed to give me nightmares. The guy that had been shot was standing up, half his cerebral cortex hanging out of a gaping hole in his skull, his right eye several feet away on the pavement. The military guy was on the ground, limbs shaking spasmodically. The—thing—whatever it fucking was—was holding something red and fleshy in one hand. When it flung it on the ground and began walking towards my building, I recognized what it was. His heart. That thing had just ripped a man's heart out his goddamn chest that probably covered in some bulletproof thing and—

The thing stopped, tilted its mangled head to the side as though listening for something. Then it snapped up, one remaining eye locking on my open window, lips splitting into a grin. It kept walking towards my building.

Saliva flooded my mouth and I leaned into the sink as I puked up my guts for the second time in less than an hour, no alcohol needed for this one. My hands gripped the stainless steel edge of the sink that was covered in hard water stains and pitted with rust, my grip whiteknuckled. Jesus fuckin' Christ. This wasn't a joke. This was reality. Roxas would never believe this, even though the kid was, like, obsessed with the idea of the undead. Past lives, other selves, zombies, whatever, he loved it.

I shook my head violently to clear it. He wasn't what I needed on my mind right now. I needed to figure out a way I was going to survive this. Logically, there were fourteen floors between me and that monster, plus four doors between the stairwell door and my flat. With five people per floor, that left about…sixty-something people between me and it. Those were pretty good odds. But what the hell did that lady say? Barricade your homes or something? Whatever, still sounded like a good plan. I wiped my mouth with shaky hands and started heaving my dresser across the floor to the doorway. Even with most of my clothes dirty and laying on the floor, that sonofabitch was still heavy. I had gotten it most of the way across the room when I heard something from the window. I looked out, against my will; I guess morbid curiosity is just engrained into my soul.

A blond guy, goofy-looking hair, with a guitar case slung over one shoulder, was running full tilt down the street. An uneven patch in the asphalt send him tumbling, though I noticed he fell facefirst to save his instrument. He got to his feet shakily and looked around, his eyes wide with fear. "Son of a bitch," I whispered. He ran to a door and tugged on the handle, then started pounding on it when it wouldn't give.

"Please!" I heard. "Please just let me in, I swear I was inside until one of those things trashed the shop, please just let me in—"

The thing that had been in the process of breaking the glass window of my building's entrance door must have decided this kid would be easier because it started jogging toward him. No, not shambling or stumbling, actually jogging, like you'd see some yuppie doing in the name of staying fit. It didn't seem to bother it at all that half of its grey matter was currently missing, forgotten somewhere on the sidewalk. And that was just…wrong. Straight up fuckin' wrong. But even as I watched, the kid turned, hearing the slaps of the thing's feet on the pavement. He started backing away, reaching inside his t-shirt for something tucked in the waistband of his jeans.

I'd seen enough to know that if I just kept standing there, looking out my window like a freak, I'd watch this poor kid get murdered. He was obviously clumsy, stumbling as he tried to scurry backwards. I turned away, tightened my laces with a ferocious yank and knotted them viciously before slipping out my door, keys tucked into my pocket. The door clicked shut with an eerie finality—I slapped myself, hard, on the cheek. This was no time to get lost in some fucked up literary doomsday scenario.

Going down fourteen flights of stairs at a normal pace takes one minute and eleven seconds. When you're flying down them as fast as you can run, jumping over several steps at a time, it takes twenty seven seconds. I counted. When I got to the bottom, my heart was pounding and my fingers tingled with adrenaline, my eyes flicking around the stairwell anxiously. The glass from the small window in the door lay scattered around my feet, crunching quietly as I stepped over it and eased the door open.

Doors in nicer parts of town wouldn't have done what my door chose to do at that moment. As I gently turned the knob and pulled the door open, it let out a squeal that echoed up the stairwell into infinity. _Fuck._ I pulled the door the rest of the way open, all hopes of stealth gone. The thing was still going after the kid with the guitar case who was doing an admirable job of playing keep-away with the corpse. He'd run to one side, then dart in another direction, shoes scraping on the rough pavement. It was like watching a really twisted scene from a psychopath's playground.

"Hey!" I shouted, causing two heads to whip towards me, though one of those heads was turned practically backwards on the spinal column it rested on. I swallowed and took off at a run towards the two. The monster turned back to guitar boy and ignored me. "If you get over here we'll run for it. My place!" My voice didn't carry quite as far as it should have, since I was panting and out of breath already, but he heard me anyway, the bangs of his ridiculous haircut flopping over his eyes as he spun on a heel once more and absolutely pelted towards my building. I guess the open stairwell door clued him in. I slid to a stop and he ran past me, but my focus was on the thing in front of me.

Now that the easy target was out of reach, the monster turned towards me, remaining eye filmed over but still shockingly human. It didn't look dead at all, despite the gaping wound over half of its face. It stood, weaving slightly, before it began to run. Not jogging anymore, this was the run of a predator chasing down prey. I whirled around and ran, my shoes slapping the pavement faster than they had since I was on the track team my sophomore year of high school.

Just as I stretched my hand out to pull the door open so I could slam it behind me, I got hit with a small truck. Or at least, that's what it felt like. The monster leapt on my back and sent me crashing to the pavement face first. I saw stars as my jaw bounced on the ground and the breath got knocked out of my lungs. Cold fingers closed around my throat and tightened as the monster sat on me. The stars multiplied and the edges of my vision were going black when something cracked through the air. The thing stiffened and the fingers around my throat tightened convulsively, then went limp as their owner slid limply from my back to the ground.

Coughing and trying desperately to suck oxygen back into my body, I got to my hands and knees. A firm hand gripped my upper arms and forced me upright and I looked into bright sea-green eyes for the first time. Then they were gone as guitar boy shoved me forward toward the stairs and shut the door behind us with another echoing squeal, the thud of the bolt locking like a security blanket around my shoulders. I could only lean against the wall, gasping, until my heart settled into a normal, if rapid, rhythm. I closed my eyes, just for a second, and the image of that thing's face flashed into my vision like it was burned into my retinas. My eyes flew open again, and I turned to look at my rescue-turned-rescuer.

He met my gaze for a second, then let his eyes drop to the black Colt .45 he held in his hands. "Hi," he said, uncertainly. "I, uhm, would've shot it sooner, but I'd never had a gun before and I guess there's a switch you have to push before it'll, y'know. Shoot someone. Thing. Something."

I snorted slightly. "Yep, called a safety. So people don't blow their damn faces off all the time." I stuck my hand out, noticing that my fall had left roadrash from palm to elbow. He took it carefully and shook once, firmly. "Axel," I said.

"Demyx," he replied. "Are we going to climb these stairs or what?"


End file.
